the wilderness

This piece was written at Cenobium at Mission Chattanooga. Creatives from our church gathered to create together around a central theme, Stone. We discussed the way stone was used in the Bible and all the implications that followed. This piece is part of an anthology that is available for purchase from Mission Chattanooga.

The unraveling began three years ago. There was a loneliness and pain I’d never experienced before. I watched dream after dream die. My hand was forced as I relinquished, unwillingly, all control. I was unsure how I could survive, if I wanted to survive. 

Up until that point I’d been promised many things. I had done my part, it was time to collect. But instead of a bouquet of promises, ash was dumped into my hands. Each promise burned away. And ash is pesky, I couldn’t quite wipe my hands of it all. The residue was still there. A painful reminder of what wouldn’t be mine. 

There were a lot of tears during that winter into spring. Prayers choked out in the middle of sobs. In the midst of confusion and pain. Didn’t I do what was asked of me? Did I not follow the script well enough? Dear church, did you not promise my life would be different? 

The Church might have promised me something, but God did not promise me the same things. 

Instead, a quiet voice told me I was entering the wilderness. A word I quickly shoved away into the recesses of my mind. An idea too painful to consider in the moment, laid dormant for later. 

Here I was in the wilderness, like so many before me. I did not choose to be here. I did not want to be here. What was I supposed to be doing here anyways? How quickly can I leave this place?

There was no clear cut answer, so I did all I knew to do. And I began to just show up. Quietly, consistently, and dare I say, faithfully. It hasn’t felt like faith, it has felt absurd. To hold onto what so many would say has caused me harm. To keep going with so many questions unanswered. To walk blindly forward, unsure of where this path may take me. 

Repeatedly I have been asked why I chose to remain in the Church, this thing that seems to have caused me the greatest harm. But really it hasn’t been the Church that has inflicted pain, it has been the people. It’s true that hurt people hurt people, simply repeating the pattern they lived. 

I, however, will disrupt the narrative. 

Maybe that’s what this wilderness has been for. I have felt like a fraud. Someone going through the motions of a faithful life. All the while feeling as though I am truly a garden left fallow. 

And yet, there’s been sacred work happening. In the stillness there has been deep and meaningful reflection. And with reflection came the dying and the uprooting. The wilderness is messy. My hands have gotten dirty as I have yanked at and yanked out deeply rooted lies. Gaping holes have been left behind, a deep ache as I have burned away that which has caused me harm. The ashes, now, a beautiful reminder of what needed to die and be laid to waste. 

From the outside it might look as though I’m going through the motions. Showing up when I am supposed to. Saying what is supposed to be said. And seemingly nothing else. But I know I have been working. 

At first it seemed I had squandered my time in the wilderness. I heard a soft whisper a few months ago that it was time to leave the wilderness. And I panicked. What do I have to show for these last few years? What have I done? What have I produced? Am I even worthy to leave?

Each of these is simply the wrong question. Really, I didn’t need to ask anything, just take a faithful step forward. In the midst of this season I have been a quiet kind of faithful. Not saying or doing much. Simply showing up, in the midst of pain, joy, grief, and celebration. Loving well and with abundance. A younger version of myself might be appalled that I have called this season faithful as well, truthfully I am still uncertain if I should. I came unraveled and I have felt untethered. And yet I know there is One who holds the end of the string. One I can trust. One who has grounded me and been steady. One that I have continued to love and seek after, albeit differently than before. 

As it turned out I needed to be in the wilderness. I needed the garden of my heart to lay fallow, to be uprooted. Three years feels like a long time to be in the wilderness, to be wandering. 

And yet, so much unexpected joy has been found in all my meanderings. It has appeared in surprising places, at unexpected times, and in people I never could have imagined. My tears watered my dormant garden to make way for joy to spring forth. So often I have found that grief is the catalyst for something different and most of the time it is something better. 

Healing has happened in the wilderness. Something that could have only occurred here, when I became unraveled, stripped of what I thought was meant to be or what I felt should have been.

The promise was never for things in this world. No, the promise was for something far grander and far more true. The promise of resurrection, of death being put into reverse. A chance to live, really live. 

When I think of the resurrection I have found that I often prefer C.S. Lewis’ description. A stone table, broken in two. There’s a permanence to it, a certainty that there is no going back to what was. Death itself died that day. Death itself became unraveled. 

It may have felt like death in the midst of my garden laying fallow, but I believe new life will begin to spring forth soon. The silence wasn’t squandered. There has been rest, a chance to replenish the soil. And there has been work getting the ground ready, that time has not been wasted. When new life begins I will see all the ways I can continue to disrupt the narratives, daffodils and dahlias in hand. There is a deeper, truer strength built from the years in the wilderness. 

A friend told me once that I was set ablaze to raise hell and restoration in the world. What a better way to exit the wilderness than on fire? Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. A beacon, to be seen by all and seen as hope that the wilderness can be left. A path paved by light, with the ash of our past falling off each of us. 

would you say this is the happiest you've ever been?

A friend asked me recently if I would say that this is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. I paused. Took stock of my life and my feelings at the time and told him no. I’m not sure what he was expecting me to say, maybe he just wanted me to be honest no matter the answer. But I left that conversation feeling unsettled. 

This is not the happiest I have ever been in my life. But when was I the happiest? What makes me happy? What does it really even mean to be happy? What about joy? All of this was just ruminating in my mind. I couldn’t let his question go. 

Another Mallory once told me that our name means joyous one. I have found it so interesting to consider that every time a person says my name, no matter the way they mean it, they are saying ‘joyous one’ to me. Me, the self-proclaimed melancholy inclined woman. Joy is not the emotion I would have chosen for myself. I am much better at being sad. What I have found, and what those who love me well have reflected back to me, is that in the midst of my sadness I have unknowingly created a deep capacity for joy. 

One friend told me that because of the deep grief and sorrow I have experienced that I have an increased capacity for joy. And honestly it seems absurd some days to consider. But she was right. I do have an increased capacity for joy. As grief and sorrow have expanded my heart there has been more room made for joy.

I used to think that joy was this big, overwhelming, and all encompassing emotion. And it certainly can be. But joy is so often found in the little things as well. The joy I experience when I get to watch the newest episode of Great British Bake Off. The joy of celebrating a student obtaining his GED. The joy in seeing those I love live out dreams. The joy in making a perfect cup of coffee. 

Joy has overwhelmed me, not all at once, but in small moments throughout my life. I know C.S. Lewis has written a book, Surprised by Joy, and it’s on my list to read. But I agree with the title at least, that I have been surprised by joy. I expected it to be big, but I have more often found it to be small. And the reality is that I have needed it to be small. When the days are long and feeling dark it is that small spark of joy that brings light. And that is what I want in my life if I am being honest. The big joys are great, I am grateful for them, but day in and day out I need the little joys to see me through. 

So I began to wonder if I would say that this time in my life has held the most joy. And still the answer was no. And I still felt unsettled. Saying this is not the happiest I have been and this is not a time in my life with the most joy made me pause to wonder how I am really feeling. I was worried that all I would be able to show for these final months of 29 was sadness and melancholy. I wouldn’t mind it, it’s fairly normal for me. But I have found it is not always easy to explain that to another person. 

Honestly it felt like asking me if I was happy was an unfair question. It didn’t fit, it didn’t feel right but I didn’t know what I needed to be asked instead. I just sat with the question. Sat with the frustration. And just kept pondering. I had lunch with some delightful friends one Sunday and one of the questions we were answering as we talked was to explain something we had been ruminating on. It seemed like the perfect time and space to take all these thoughts rumbling around and present them to someone else. Maybe someone else could make sense of what felt so muddled in my brain. 

And someone else did. I was presented with the words peace and contentment. Yes I could be asked if I was happy. But I could also be asked if I was sleeping well. And honestly, that is a far better indication of how I am doing than my happiness. I just hadn’t realized it until someone else said it. I think back to a couple of years ago when I had a job that caused immense anxiety. I was overwhelmed and unravelling. And I wasn’t sleeping. It took me months to be able to sleep well after I quit that job. It took me months to find peace again. 

But I found peace. And I have found contentment. Despite all that I have experienced I have peace, a peace that truly passes all understanding. A peace that is abiding in the melancholy and joy. A peace that is like a river, flowing through my life, quenching my thirst and sustaining me in the midst of all that I am experiencing. 

So I went back to that friend and told him I hadn’t stopped thinking about his question. And that I had decided I didn’t like his question and that I had settled on a new one. That I would rather have peace than happiness be the metric of my life. 

And I would say that this is a time in my life when I am experiencing a deep peace. Things feel rocky and uncertain at times. As I approach 30 I am beginning to take stock of my life and let me tell you, 18 year old me simply could not have predicted all of this. But I have a deep peace about my life. My life is good. My life is rich. My life has been wholly unexpected and exactly what I have needed. 

There are days I worry about where I am going and what might be next. But I have peace for this day and that’s enough for me. I know that the life I am living is one to be proud of. I once told someone that if I had to describe my life in broad strokes that my desire was to have a life painted with love. To love others well, everywhere I went. And I am getting to live that out. It isn’t what I planned and it isn’t what I thought I would want. But it is good. And it is mine. And I am proud of that. 

why do you run

why do you run?

A seemingly harmless question, why did you start running? I can assure you they didn’t expect my response.

“I started running because I hated my body and hated myself.”

Recently, I have decided that I am going to be honest. Not to say I wasn’t honest before, but rather lean into the full truth. Especially when it is so deeply connected to something I am passionate about. When people inquire about the focus of my theological degree I tell them I love to study theology of the body. So why would I not be honest about the journey I have been on with my body? Even the uncomfortable parts.

I can say the truth because now I know what is genuinely true about myself and about my body. When I look back it is with deep compassion for my younger self. She was in an immense amount of pain and was still figuring everything out. (Do we ever have it all figured out?) I wish I could give her a hug and tell her all that we know now.

The painful truth is that I used to run because I hated my body and hated myself. After graduating from college I lived alone in a brand new state, far away from my typical support network. For most of my life I had hated the way I looked and the extra weight I carried. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to do something about it. So I began to run and work out. I tracked calories obsessively. None of this was done out of a mentally healthy place, it was all done from a source of pain and hatred. And that isn’t something I can recommend doing.

Like so many others I did the beloved Couch to 5k program. I am a big fan of plans, anyone who knows me well knows this to be true. Having a plan crafted for me that I could check off each day was perfect. Everyone around me was supportive and excited for me as I ran and began my health journey. They praised my weight loss and the way my body now looked. My reality was far different though, inside I was in an immense amount of pain and was using running to quite literally run from my feelings and problems. I ran a 5k at Thanksgiving and spent less and less time running after that.

I started running again when I was in seminary a year later, once again in a new city and looking for community. I wanted to run and continue to find ways to love my body and love myself. I had gone to seminary in order to do just that, hoping to then in turn be able to help others do the same for themselves. But I was still spending so much time running from what I was feeling inside. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life or what to do with this degree I was working towards. Often I joke that going to seminary was my quarter-life crisis because I was trying to figure it all out. All the pain and confusion from the years had built up and was spilling over.

Running remained intermittent those couple of years I was in seminary as time and weather allowed. That is until I was convinced (coerced?) into running the Disney Princess Half Marathon with one of my dear friends. To be fair, this item had been on my bucket list, though I am not sure why. I had heard about the races before and heard that they were incredible. Someday I wanted to do one too and it looked like it was about to be my time. My friend and I had agreed to run it the year after I graduated, an interesting way to ensure that we would stay in touch and have a plan to hang out.

I found myself in yet another new city, once again beginning a new running journey. I had more community this time around and a rather lofty goal of running a half marathon (a lovely 13.1 miles for those who don’t know). Running became a means of survival that year. It was my first year teaching. I was not a trained educator or even a big fan of English class when I was in school, and yet here I was teaching 8th grade English. The year was overwhelming and incredibly painful. I felt like I was drowning and could not see anyone to throw me a life vest. So I ran. On the days that seemed impossible I knew I could come home and run and it would somehow help.

Running that half marathon began an interesting season of life. February 2020 made me think things were getting better. I felt like I was getting in better shape. I thought I was turning a corner in my job, and I had just run 13.1 miles, what more could I want?

But I think we all know what happened next. An incredible shift in how we live our lives. Like so many others it felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under me. And that feeling would continue for the next almost three years. Nothing went according to plan and there were many painful and soul crushing moments. After the race I took a break from running and it was hard to get back into it. I ran here and there but could not bring myself to do it much. As I looked around at the world it seemed even harder to create the motivation to run. For so many of us it simply became about surviving.

As I ran intermittently I would ask myself why I was running.

It has taken me a long time to run for different reasons. There has been a lot of stopping and restarting over the years. But each restart has brought me closer to a deeper love for myself. Each time I have seen myself make better decisions, slowly but surely moving towards a deep love and care for this body I have been given.

I have run two half marathons in my life now. A sentence I never thought I would be able to say, but I’ve got a very persuasive friend. Each of the races have been the Disney Princess Half Marathon and I can assure you that every mile really is magic in Disney.

Now I run because I enjoy it. Yes it’s hard some days but I am grateful to reap the benefits. It has helped improve my asthma. Running is one of the things that I can clearly see helping my mental health. And it reminds me of how strong I am. How much I am capable of. And that is why I run.